My King
by Vytina
Summary: The King lives for his Queen.  The Queen lives because of her King.


**A/N: Inspired by Sweetbean882006, through her lovely sketch "He is My King" on , this is a look into Melanie Walker's past. Looking back on her upbringing, where true love only existed in fairytales and happily-ever-after was a thing of childish longing, she now knows just what a real happily-ever-after is. She's living one.**

**Title: My King**

**Summary: The King lives for his Queen. The Queen lives because of her King.**

**Character Pairing: Terry McGinnis/Batman x Melanie Walker**

**Rating: T for sexual content (some slightly graphic)**

**Disclaimer: I do now own Batman Beyond or any affiliated characters. I own only the content of this story. Credit goes to Sweetbean882006 for her lovely piece of artwork that inspired this story.**

**Please leave a comment! Thank you!**

* * *

><p>"<em>Soul meets soul on lover's lips." ~ Percy Shelly<em>

She sits upon a bed of fine linens and polished wood, eyes wide and still maintaining the vestiges of innocence, granted only by her youth. In the forthcoming years, she will lose her innocence, her naivety. But for now, it remains within her, reflected through sweet blue eyes, a head of loose blonde waves, and a smile as she looks up at a familiar face—the face of the woman from whom she obtained her pale tresses and bright blue eyes.

But these eyes, she will later understand, have always been cold. The smile this woman wears is nothing but a mask.

"_Will you be my queen_, the handsome king asked of her as he knelt before her on bended knee, _For I have searched far and wide and found none so radiant as you, my love_." A pause as a slender finger turns the glossed pages, "And with joy in her heart, the beautiful princess agreed to marry her king. And they lived happily ever after."

The book is set aside, and she is tucked down into the silky folds of her sheets. Blue eyes lift to the face lingering above, "Mommy, are you and Daddy living happily ever after, just like the princess?"

"Yes, we are." The woman nods, her smile in place, "And do you know why we're living happily ever after?"

She thinks for a moment, then answers slowly, hesitantly, "Because Daddy loves you as much as the king loved the princess?"

A laugh follows the answer. Later, the little girl will come to fear that laugh, even hate it. For now, it only makes her feel foolish.

"No, no, no…" Mother—no, Queen, for she must always be called Queen, even by her children—shakes her head, neatly folding the sheets down beneath the child's chin, "It's because every beautiful princess must have a King, so she can become a queen."

"But don't you and Daddy love each other?" she is confused, and it shows in her eyes. Queen's smile remains in place, never reaching her eyes as she shakes her head again.

"Love is for fairytales, sweetheart." She taps her daughter's nose with the pad of her finger—the same way one might chastise a kitten or puppy for a silly action. "True love doesn't exist in the real world. All that matters is that you find your king—someone tall and strong, who can give you all the money you could ever want. And then you live happily ever after. Do you understand?"

She doesn't, but she nods anyway. Even at such a young age, she knows there is nothing else to do but agree with Queen. "Yes, Mommy."

"That's my girl." Queen praises her with that empty smile, patting her on the head and moving for the door, "Goodnight, Ten."

For the next twelve years, that will be her name—_Ten_. And she will answer to it every time.

* * *

><p>She smiles, laughing as a shower of confetti and ribbons descend upon her head from the ceiling. Her classmates are all around her, shouting out their congratulations and the like, heralding her thirteenth birthday. She has never before had her birthday recognized as such an occasion. It makes her smile, and she doesn't think she will ever stop smiling. For the first time, she gets to celebrate her birthday with friends, in a school from which she has not yet been removed within the first two weeks of attending. Everyone around her is happy. She is happy.<p>

"Happy Birthday, Melanie…" a boy shifts nervously in place, his hands folded behind his back and his eyes cast to the floor. She looks down curiously, wondering if there is something of interest on the floor that would so quickly grab his attention. Other than the colorful pattern etched into the carpet, she can't see anything of particular interest.

"Can…can I talk to you over there?" he nods to the back corner of the classroom. She tilts her head curiously, nodding slowly as she follows him. His hands abruptly moved to his front, hiding something from her.

But she does not wait too long to find out what it is. As soon as they are away from the rest of the class—they are all busy enjoying the cake—he hands her a little bouquet of flowers. They look as though they've been plucked from the garden, and their stems are slightly bent out of shape from being clutched so tightly in his hand.

"S…sorry they're not very pretty." He mumbles his apology, looking embarrassed. But when she smiles at him, his cheeks turn bright red.

"They're perfect." She promises him, "Thank you, Jimmy."

She will be ordered to forget his name that night. King says she is too young. Queen says he—she calls him "the boy"—will never give her a proper _happily ever after_. She is to forget his name and never speak of it again.

Even if she had tried to remember, it wouldn't have mattered. She was pulled out of school the next day.

* * *

><p>She is sixteen; her body has blossomed into that of a "deserving Queen". She has been groomed to be a "deserving Queen" for the last three years. The lessons started the day after her thirteenth birthday—how to look her best, no matter the occasion; how to walk, talk, and act in order to grab a man's attention. And most importantly, she has been trained in all the ways in which her body can be used.<p>

Her body has become a vital tool for the family's purposes. She has no say in the matter, not if she wanted to prove her loyalty.

"This is my daughter, Melanie." Queen says, sweeping her into the waiting arms of a man—tall and refined, handsome perhaps in his own right. But his smile frightens her. It is not a real smile…not a kind smile.

It is a hungry smile.

"I'm sure she would happy to show you around our home." Queen—her own mother—continues, her hand firmly keeping the young woman in place, within mere inches of this strange man. She does not know who he is—perhaps one of King's business partners? She does not even know his name.

"Go on, Melanie," this is the only time she is called by her name, when the family is in public. She has almost forgotten that her name is not Ten; only these few instances remind her that she actually has another name. "Give the nice man a _thorough_ tour."

It is he who directs the tour, and there is only one place in the house in which he is interested—the guest room—specifically, the bed.

His cologne is overpowering, and she nearly suffocates on the potency of it. But it also serves to distract her—at least for a little while. But there are other sensations (if they can even be called such) that cannot be so easily ignored.

Her eyes squeeze shut, trying to pull memories from the far reaches of her mind. She is running along the shoreline with her brother—_no, don't touch me_—they're building a castle from the white sand—_stop it, please stop it_—her brother is giving her a shell, telling her to hold it against her ear—_I don't want it…I don't want this_—she can hear the ocean inside the shell's depths, just like Jack said she could—_Stop it! Stop making me touch_—they're smiling and laughing—_oh God, please don't, PLEASE don't_—she throws her arms around her brother and they fall back into the sand—_it hurts…God, help me, it hurts…_

Hours later—he was _thorough_ with her—it hurts to walk, but she has to move all the same to get away from that room. The wall seems to understand, supporting her weight as she stumbles down the hallway. The house is quiet, now that the man—she still doesn't know his name—has left her. She wonders, vaguely, how long it will be before he realizes the funds in his accounts have been drained.

As she passes the master suite, she can hear Queen heralding their success, thriving in the knowledge of just how much money they have won tonight, all while their "friend" was distracted. King's voice joins hers, promising to purchase his wife a vast array of diamonds and jewels come tomorrow. She croons at him, and there is a distinct rustling of clothes being removed—the sound of the King preparing to mate with his Queen. It is the sound of _happily ever after_ coming true.

It is enough to make her want to vomit.

Her hands are shaking as she twists the handle to another bedroom, pushing the door open slowly and stumbling inside. Her legs quakes beneath her, and she nearly falls to the ground. Two arms suddenly sweep out from the darkness, catching her firmly and drawing her upright again. She does not struggle as the arms carry her over to the bed; this is a bed she does not object to being placed upon. Her brother's scent is familiar and comforting, and she buries herself against his chest. His hand slowly strokes her hair, silently promising to keep her with him for the rest of the night.

She knows, come morning, he will not ask what happened. He already knows.

* * *

><p>The moon is full tonight, lingering just outside the window. It seems so close, as though one could easily reach out and touch it—this gleaming orb of silver whose rays flood the room, pouring in through the open window, accompanied by the cool touch of night. The wind tickles her cheek, beckoning her to turn over in place, the sheets rustling around her body. A moment passes, but she finally opens her eyes. The room is empty, save the strips of light interrupting the dark span of floor.<p>

Her hand slides down to catch hold of the sheets, bringing them to her face and inhaling carefully. She draws the linens closer to her, wanting to cover herself in the comforting scent that lingers upon them. In silence, she waits for the familiar sound of a body slipping across the ledge and settling down on the floor, that familiar sound that tells her all went well tonight.

She spots the clock lying on the nightstand—_1:21AM_ flashes back at her in a blur of neon green. If all goes well, it won't be long now.

Sleep overcomes her for a short time, but the moment she hears the window panes shifting, exhaustion leaves her in a rush of excitement. Her eyes open immediately, looking at the figure standing a few short feet away, outlined in moonlight.

She moves to sit upright, balancing on her elbows. Black garments are steadily removed from a body tone with lean, sharp muscles, first discarded on the floor, then later nudged over to the privacy of a corner—lest any wandering, uninvited eyes come looking in the morning hours.

She pushes the sheets away, sliding off the bed to approach him. Her eyes run slowly over the line of his body, admiring the kiss of moonlight over his skin, highlighting the clearly defined muscles, brushing over the scars that have been formed over the last two years. The most recent of these lies over his right shoulder—a short but deep-seated notch in his flesh where a thug threw a grappling hook at him. She is pleased to see it is healing nicely. Soon, there will only be a small indentation in his skin, and the satisfaction of knowing he put the thug behind bars.

She cannot see his eyes right now, but she can feel them running over her body, admiring the view of her in nothing but an oversized shirt (borrowed from his closet) and a strip of black cotton around her hips that just barely preserves her modesty.

His arms extend for her, and she eagerly steps forward, feeling relief crash over her. The wait for him to return always nears that of being unbearable, but the feeling of being in his embrace once again always manages to wipe away all her distress. Her head tilts up, finding his mouth in the darkness and smiling when he eagerly returns the gesture.

"You're home early." She murmurs, lifting her hand to his cheek, fingering the slope of his brow with a smile. "Any major problems tonight?"

"Cocky new-timer tried to make it big at the bank." He answers, reluctantly removing his arms from her as he peels the rest of the costume away. "He might have actually pulled it off, except for one little thing."

"What's that?"

"He forgot about the security system."

She laughs quietly, leaning against the window ledge as he dons some more comfortable attire—a white T-shirt and shorts. "Were you nice to the rookie? After all, it _was_ his first time."

"I might have considered it, if he hadn't started shooting." He shrugs, "Some guys just don't know how to play nice."

"They learn fast, especially when you're giving the lesson." Her lips press to the side of his cheek, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders from behind, "All that matters is you're safe."

"Come on now…" she gasps softly, undeniably pleased as he lifts her in his arms, moving back to the bed, "It takes more than a trigger-happy rookie to keep me from coming home at night. Especially when I have a gift to give…"

Something soft and silky brushes against her cheek; it does not take her too long to realize what it is—the smell of roses is one she will always recognize, especially when he is the one giving them.

"And just where, Mr. McGinnis, have you been hiding this all night?" she inquires, fingers reaching out to wrap around the stem and bring the flower closer for further inspection. It is in full-bloom—a rare thing to find this time of year.

"That, Miss Walker, is my little secret…" he shifts closer to her on the bed, one arm around her shoulders. The other arm extends for his lamp, bringing some additional light to the room. They have no fear of interruption tonight—something she acknowledges with no small satisfaction.

Her eyes notice a card dangling from the stem—one side decorated with a simple red and white checkered pattern. Her fingers turn it over, smiling as she finds the double-ended image of the Queen detailed on the other side.

"Well, well…" Melanie smiles at him, "I do believe I'm being courted by some debonair figure from foreign lands." She inhales the sweet scent of the rose once again, relishing it for a moment. "It's beautiful, Terry. Thank you."

"You deserve more," he replies, running the fingers of his left hand through her platinum locks, "You deserve all the jewels and money in the world. I just wish I could give it to you."

Her fingers brush over his lips, hushing away his words. "I have no use for wealth, Terry. It means nothing to me—never brought me happiness or freedom or anything else that I could possibly want." She smiles at him again, leaning forward with a playful gleam in her eye, "And it certainly never brought me a happily-ever-after."

He smiles against her fingertips, kissing them gently. "What ever would your parents say, knowing that you gave up all that money and status just so you could be swept up in the arms of their sworn enemy?" his mouth moves down to kiss her wrist, "You'd break your mother's heart."

"Well, for all the lies she told me," her eyes briefly close at the feel of his mouth brushing over her veins, right where the skin is unbearably sensitive, "There was one thing she was right about."

"What's that?"

Melanie smiles; both arms slide around his shoulders to bring him closer, fingers running absently through his hair. "I found my King." She murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, "And he has given me all the riches I could want, all the freedom I could ever hope for…the very finest life could ever offer me. And I'm happy…truly, honestly happy."

Terry's fingers move slowly down, brushing over the warm skin of her thighs before fingering the hem of his borrowed shirt, already knowing just how lovely it will look on the floor. "The King lives for his Queen…" he breathes while slowly kissing down the warm slope of her neck.

Her eyes close, her head tilting back as she fully welcomes his advances. His hands move beneath the shirt, swiftly drawing it over her head and casting it away to the floor. In a matter of seconds, his clothes will join hers—just as it should be. Her lips press to his jaw, letting her response pass into his ear through nothing more than a breathed whisper.

"The Queen lives because of her King."


End file.
